


There Is Something About Us

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Movie Reference, Pre-Slash to Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5822578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He doesn't sound like he needs your help."</p><p>That's what Gaby had said to Illya when they had listened in while Napoleon 'entertained' Victoria Vinciguerra in his room, much to Illya's chagrin. But what happens after that? And what happens much, much later after Waverly decides to team them up together? And what happens months after they are paired together?</p><p>Two missing scenes plus what happens after in one little story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is Something About Us

The last person Gaby had expected to see that night when she had opened the door to her hotel suite was Napoleon, especially after briefly hearing his little romp with Victoria Vinciguerra, courtesy of Illya’s bugs he had planted in Napoleon’s room. It had been a couple of hours since Illya had unceremoniously turned the audio off, visibly upset when Gaby had mentioned Napoleon apparently had never needed his help.

“Solo? It’s two in the morning. What are you doing here?”

Gaby tries to sound casual. 

Even if it had been brief, she could still hear it in her head, those delicious moans Napoleon had made. Standing there before her, wearing that dress robe with his pyjama pants and bedroom slippers and hair slightly dishevelled (she hopes it was not Victoria’s doing), Gaby suddenly takes notice of that handsome chiselled face. And just picturing him with those sounds she had heard before is enough to make her face flush and her body tingle. Napoleon frowns at the sudden pink forming on her cheeks.

“I came to check on Peril but now I have to ask, are _you_ all right? You look a little flushed.”

She shakes her head, tries to ignore Napoleon’s questioning look. If only he knows what she’s currently picturing in her head. Groaning inwardly at her foolishness, she quickly answers his question before he gets suspicious.

“I’m fine, Solo, but why do you want to check on Illya?” 

“Can I come in for a bit?” Napoleon says instead without answering her and Gaby steps aside to let him in. Then, Napoleon walks straight in, stops right before the foot of the bed where Illya is currently sleeping.

“Solo, what’s the matter?”

Napoleon gestures towards the sleeping Russian.

“Well, we sort of had a little incident at the shipyard,” Napoleon admits at once, not wanting to beat around the bush. “Peril didn’t mention anything to you?”

“No, not really. He came running in after coming back from whatever it was he’d been up to and straightaway went for his listening equipment and…”

As soon as she had said it, Gaby knows she had let the cat out of the bag and Napoleon’s eyes widen, immediately catches on why Gaby had blushed earlier, wonders how much they had actually heard.

“I can’t believe you two.”

“Hey, it wasn’t me! It was Illya,” Gaby defends herself, but Napoleon did not miss the sheepish tone in her voice. “I just happened to listen because I’m his fiancé and that we share a room. But you needn’t worry, I didn’t get to hear much anyway. Illya turned it off before it got too raunchy.”

“Didn’t like what he heard, I presume?” Napoleon says with a small grin as he pictures Illya’s annoyed face, and Gaby cannot help but roll her eyes at Napoleon’s smug remark. 

“Sometimes, you can be quite impossible,” she grumbles.

“Nothing really happened, Teller. Not along the lines that you’re thinking.”

In truth, whatever had happened between Napoleon and Victoria did not pique her interest at all, not at the moment anyway. What she is really interested in is why Napoleon had come to their room to check on Illya. 

“Look, I don’t care about her. I want you to tell me about Illya. What happened earlier?” she then asks. 

Their conversation is taking place right in the middle of the room and Gaby realises they had been speaking in hushed tones the entire time.

“Solo?” she asks him again, feels anxious all of a sudden. “Tell me? What’s going on?”

“Peril almost drowned earlier on.”

Horrified, Gaby gasps at his revelation, glances at Illya, before returning her attention on Napoleon once again. He is standing there in front of her, eyeing Illya with a concerned look on his face, and Gaby thinks this is the first time she has seen Napoleon looking so serious. She prods him into explaining their earlier escapade and could only gape as he spills every little detail.

“The long ride back to the hotel wasn’t really pleasant for us either. We were both soaking wet even if our clothes had dried up by the time we reached here. I was worried Peril would catch pneumonia or something, but we didn’t have time to stop. I wanted to, but Peril wouldn’t let me because he suspected Victoria was hot on our tails and sure enough he was right. I just had enough time to put on a show coming out of the bathroom by the time she entered my room. I would have come to check on him earlier, but you know, I sort of had my hands full.”

Despite that last bit of innuendo, Napoleon sounded genuinely worried about Illya and it got Gaby thinking for a second or two. And as she tries to let Napoleon’s explanation sink in, she begins to understand now why Illya had been so agitated when he had trouble finding the right frequency to listen in to Napoleon’s room. He had been worried for Napoleon as well. And to think she had thought him childish when she had learned he had bugged the American’s room for the reason Napoleon had tried to bug him. Boys!

“He’s been sleeping fine so far,” Gaby says when she notices Napoleon’s unabated concern for Illya. “I think he’s okay.”

She’s telling the truth of course, although she omitted the part where Illya had had a coughing fit right before he fell asleep earlier on. She does not want to add on to Napoleon’s worry.

“Don’t worry, Solo, he’s fine,” she reassures him, relieved when she sees him relaxing a little. “Go sleep, will you? I’ll let you know if we do need anything, okay?” 

Napoleon slowly nods. “Well, if that’s the case then I suppose I will adjourn to my room now, Miss Teller. But still, do keep an eye on, Peril.”

“You really _are_ concerned about him, aren’t you?”

Gaby cannot help but say her thoughts out loud when Napoleon’s apparent worry for Illya had become too obvious. He cocks an eyebrow at her astute observation. “Well, I’d be concerned as well if I had to fish you out of that cold water.”

There is no dishonesty in his voice, and Gaby does not doubt him, but she still feels there is more to it than what Napoleon is saying. Maybe, giving him the benefit of the doubt, Napoleon is not aware of what is currently developing between Illya and him. Or maybe, she herself is seeing too much into their blossoming friendship. In the end, she only gives him a sly smile.

“Whatever you say, Solo.”

Before he turns to leave, Gaby tugs at his sleeve and rubs her hand on his arm. “Thanks for telling me about Illya.”

“Well, I have to be responsible. After all, he is your fiancé. I don’t want one angry East German girl on my back if anything had happened to him. Can’t imagine the drama I’d have to face.”

Gaby only giggles at that, then tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Goodnight, Solo.”

She lets out a small sigh once he disappears down the hallway before closing the door behind her.

Later, after returning to her bed, she watches over Illya, with his back facing her, as he sleeps.

Despite how they act around one another, Gaby has an inkling that perhaps, both Napoleon and Illya, two spies who are supposedly sworn enemies, somehow are really softies at heart who cares about the other more than they are willing to admit. And Napoleon’s behaviour earlier on was proof enough for her. It’s just a shame Illya had not lain witness to that, Gaby thinks. It would have considerably softened the big Russian’s heart further.

But Gaby could not be more wrong. 

Because Illya is one damn talented spy who could fake sleep through their entire conversation without either of his partners noticing it, had heard every single thing that was said. He is not certain why, but Napoleon’s concern had left him feeling warm all over, cancelling out the cold shivering experience he had felt earlier on.

The last thing he had expected after he had fallen into the water was to be saved and pulled to the surface by Napoleon. Initially, when he realised who had saved him, Illya had cursed himself, had hated the fact that he now owes his life to this American agent. It was another dent to his ego after he had failed to manoeuvre them out of the docks. But all along the ride back to Rome on that damn Vespa, with his arms wrapped around his partner, Napoleon never once mentioned that fact, never once had acted smug about his heroic act, but instead, had only shown concern towards him. Illya recognises that fact and Napoleon’s visit to his room minutes ago, just to check on his well-being, despite having to handle a psychopath prior to that (which made him worry and a little bit jealous?), has managed to change Illya’s perspective on him somehow.

And just before he drifts off, Illya smiles, thinks about that crazy American spy once again whose warm words had made his chest feel tight, and admittedly, even if he hates to say it out loud, they do make a good partnership after all.

But little does he know their partnership will soon take an unexpected, sharp turn. And when that happens, Illya will not know what has hit him. 

And in that case, neither will Napoleon.

 

***

 

Waverly had just broken the news to them. 

They will be going to Istanbul for an assignment after both the CIA and KGB have agreed to let them work together for an indefinite period with Waverly’s unit called UNCLE, and although Illya wants to be suspicious of this sudden arrangement, especially after what they had done by defying their superiors’ orders and burning the wanted disc, he figures this would have to be their best option.

After having that drink on his balcony, convinced that would be the last he would see of Napoleon, thinking _‘yes, I did like working with you even though I say you are a terrible spy’_ , Illya is once again in Napoleon’s room. This time, he is not having a tensed confrontation with the American like before, but instead talking to him about their unforeseeable future. 

“What do you think of UNCLE?” 

“I’m not really sure. But Waverly, he seems all right. I don’t think UNCLE has anything to do with either the CIA or KGB. And I don’t see us having any other option after what we’d done,” Napoleon says, pauses like he is deep in thought, and then grins while waggling his eyebrows at the same time. “Unless of course you are thinking of disappearing and running away with me.”

Illya almost wants to laugh at Napoleon’s absurd suggestion. Inadvertently, he starts picturing himself on a horse with Cowboy riding into the sunset.

“I am being serious,” he eventually says. 

“Me too,” Napoleon answers, that infuriating grin still plastered on his face and Illya is almost tempted to entertain the American’s idea. But before Napoleon could say anything else, before he is able to put more crazy thoughts into his head, Illya says something that changes the tone of their conversation. 

“I never wanted to kill you, what Oleg asked me to do. Was never my intention after everything that happened…”

Illya’s out of the blue confession, the sudden seriousness in his voice, pulls Napoleon’s thoughts away from UNCLE and Waverly, his words like a trigger to his lull senses. 

Immediately putting down his empty glass of scotch on his decanter, he walks over to Illya who is standing by his room’s door. Then he gives the Russian a good stare, his icy blue eyes containing hidden depths, Napoleon realises he has not even scratched the surface. And he feels if given the chance, perhaps Illya will let him strip off the layers little by little. Napoleon stores it in his brain as his top-to-do list. 

“You really intrigue me, Peril,” he admits, surprising himself at his outward honesty and Illya draws in a breath, equally startled. He is not quite certain what is happening but at Napoleon’s somewhat intense scrutiny, Illya’s heart rate starts to speed up.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs.

Somehow, Illya is being backed up against the door without him realising it. He tries not to be affected by Napoleon’s closeness because he knows he has moved past that kind of uneasiness he first felt when they had started working together. But oddly enough, what he is feeling at that moment is not something he could easily define. He stops Napoleon before the American could get any closer, puts a firm hand against his chest. 

“Tell me something,” Napoleon asks, not minding Illya’s hand on him. “If I hadn’t returned your father’s watch, would you have gone through with it? Would you have pulled that trigger on me?” 

Illya’s answer to Napoleon’s question comes immediately, without any hesitation, without any doubt.

“Like I said, I didn’t really want to kill you,” he reiterates, thinks, _You should really see the state of my room, Cowboy, if you need further evidence of that._

“But it did look like you were about to pull your gun out of your jacket. I saw your reflection in the mirror.”

Illya does not answer him straightaway this time, simply shuffles his feet to straighten his body from where he was leaning against the door. Replaying it in his head, Illya remembers reaching for his gun, remembers how he was screaming inside at what he was about to do before Napoleon had turned at the last minute and sealed their fate with the toss of his father’s watch. He wants to admit, _‘I probably would have shot you in the leg, so you would live, at least, but I do not think I could bear watch you writhing in pain. I do not think I could do it even if my orders were clear enough’_. 

When had this mission become a fight against himself, against the very orders he was meant to follow? He had lost his way, somehow, and Napoleon had been the cause of it. It is something Illya had never expected to happen when they had first started out but this is something he has to live with, something he has to accept. 

With both hands now on Napoleon’s shoulders, he tells him out loud what really matters, what Napoleon really needs to know. “I told you I didn’t really want to kill you. Which part of that did you not understand, Cowboy?” 

Napoleon wants to say he is satisfied with Illya’s answer even if there is still that little bit of doubt left in his mind. In truth, Illya had evaded his question. No real answer was given, but in the end, he decides to let it go and shrugs. “I’m just checking, Peril.”

“But you would have left with that disc if I had not come to your room.”

It was Illya’s turn to ask. The Russian’s competitive nature has kicked in, for he has some unanswered questions of his own, and Napoleon tilts his head at that hint of accusation and sniggers. “Ah, but you see, I knew you would be coming.”

“But if I had not seen it, you would keep quiet about it,” Illya counters.

“If I didn’t want you to see it, I wouldn’t have put that damn disc there, would have put it in my suitcase instead of partially hiding it underneath my waistcoat.”

Illya pulls his hands off of Napoleon’s shoulders, crosses his arms across his chest then looks questioningly at the American before him. “Are you saying you did it on purpose? You saying it was bait?”  
.  
“Maybe?” Napoleon says with a slight pout. “I’m not that terrible of a spy like you think I am.”

“I do not really think that,” Illya mutters apologetically, casting his eyes down.

He thinks Napoleon is brilliant in fact. He has proven it with his acute sense of awareness and keen eyes. If it wasn’t for him, nobody would have guessed Vinciguerra’s old fishing boat name and he would not have gotten his watch back. 

“I’m glad we did not kill each other, Cowboy,” he says as he returns his attention on Napoleon again. 

“Me too, Peril. That would have been a catastrophe.”

“You make it sound too dramatic but perhaps you are right.”

Illya has never met a man more complex than Napoleon Solo, a person that invokes such strange emotions in him, he simply cannot put a finger on what actually pulls him towards this American. Maybe he will find his answers soon. If Napoleon would let him.

Glancing at the time on his father’s watch, and then back at Napoleon, he reminds him that they would need to make a move soon. 

“Let’s forget about the disc. It’s not our concern anymore. Gaby will be waiting at lobby. We should go now.”

When Napoleon does not say anything, Illya clears his throat. “Solo, are you with me?”

Pulled out of his trance, Napoleon then gives him an affirmative nod. “Yes, yes, I hear you. Just hold on.”

Turning around, he goes to grab his suitcase and Illya takes that opportunity to look at him, study his moves, perhaps even imprint him in his mind. He had thought they would go their separate paths, back to their own countries, to their respective agencies but instead here they are, together, still, and Illya thinks, maybe this arrangement is not so bad after all.

“Ready?” Napoleon says, with his suitcase in hand as he stands next to Illya.

“Yes,” Illya answers, follows him out of the room but just before Napoleon closes the door behind them, he turns to face the Russian again and flashes one of his widest grin Illya had ever seen.

“What is it?” Illya asks, curious. 

“That riding into the sunset on a horse is actually a pretty good idea of yours, I must say.”

Illya is instantly alarmed. Napoleon must be some kind of psychic to know what he had been thinking. Or had he actually said his thoughts out loud? But he couldn’t have…

“What did you mean by that?” Illya demands but Napoleon only laughs, his eyes twinkling. Agitated, Illya only scowls in return. Unfortunately, he will have to get used to Napoleon and his incessant teasing and the worse bit of all, his goddamned distracting blue eyes. He leaves him in a huff.

“Peril, wait! Oh, come on, I was just kidding!”

Napoleon shakes his head but he can’t help himself. Ruffling Illya’s feathers will be his new hobby, he decides. Although, perhaps, it is not such a good idea to tease the Russian too much, especially not during their first day as UNCLE partners. He certainly wants to survive their plane ride to Istanbul that would probably take about four to five hours.

A plane ride of four to five hours with the Russian Red Peril. Now who would have thought that at the start of the day?

But Napoleon figures it is going to be an interesting ride indeed.

 

***

 

_6 missions in and 4 months later..._

 

“If you want to say something, you better say it now, Peril.”

Illya chews the inside of his cheek. His nerves are shot. He does not quite know how to say, how to put in words what he feels at that particular moment.

Both men have been staring at each other, as if locked in an eye duel contest, sitting on opposite ends of their modest sized hotel room they have been sharing for the past few days for almost a full five minutes without saying anything, incomprehensible thoughts swirling in each other's own minds, when Napoleon had broken the silence first after he could not handle the tensed situation any longer.

“Someone has to take the lead. Either you or me.”

Napoleon’s lips are moving, spewing out words that are making Illya’s insides twist nervously. They have been putting off this conversation for some time now, heck, maybe since Istanbul, and it looks like Napoleon’s patience has run out. Illya wants to ask _‘why now, why after we've been so good at pretending for so long?’_ , wants to say _‘why can’t things remain the way they are?’_ , but he knows that would mean prolonging the long suffering charade between them.

“This idea is bad, we should not...even entertain this idea,” he mutters instead.

“I don’t believe you really think that, not even for a second,” Napoleon argues.

He is still sitting in that chair, unmoving, arms placed perfectly still on the armrests, eyes boring at Illya like he wants to drown in the Russian’s own. For the past months, he has gradually stripped Illya off his layers and this is his last bit of resistance that Napoleon badly needs to break through.

“Tell me I'm not wrong, Peril _Please_?”

Napoleon’s somewhat pleading tone is like his secret weapon, an ammunition against Illya’s flailing defences and Illya has to look away when he is not able to handle Napoleon’s stare. He wants to flee the room, but he does not want to face Gaby tomorrow knowing they have not resolved their problem like they had promised her, and honestly, Illya himself is tired of running. Tired of running away from what he really wants. But he is afraid. Still so afraid.

“Look, Peril, I don’t think I can take it any longer. This crazy thing between us? It’s got to stop. Tonight.”

Napoleon is giving him an ultimatum and Illya knows well enough there could only be one acceptable solution to it. Anything else than the one they’ve conjured firmly in their brains is certainly going to break him and Napoleon. And now his heart is beating fast, way too fast. He tries to put things in perspective again, thinks this is not normal. This is not how things are supposed to be. No. This is Napoleon. His UNCLE partner of four months. An ex-CIA agent no less. He isn’t supposed to like him this much, he isn’t supposed to have this incredible want for this American man to the point he constantly invades his thoughts, every waking day and night. But whatever it is that has been building between them has become something too impossible, too hard for Illya to ignore. 

Especially after what had happened earlier that day.

Their mission had almost gone wrong. Himself almost losing Napoleon in a crossfire. Fuck, Illya could not risk it again. 

“So who’s it gonna be, Peril? You or me? Who’s going to start this?”

Napoleon’s voice breaks Illya’s chaotic thoughts. He is really doing it now. Taunting him, goading him, challenging his self control to a point of no return. And Cowboy really should stop, because Illya’s patience is also about to snap. He clutches his fingers on the cushions of his own seat, hard enough until his knuckles turn white.

“I’m here, Illya. Right here. If you want me.”

That is the final straw. Illya groans and closes his eyes. He is picturing Napoleon’s face. His blue eyes, his dark luscious hair, his delectable mouth, the sharp turn of his jaw, and he is imagining himself kissing him. Running his tongue over those lips, inside the recesses of his mouth he daily glimpses at. Over and over. Making Napoleon moan. Arch. Inexplicably, a surprised gasp escapes Illya’s mouth.

Four months ago, in Napoleon’s room in Rome, Illya had felt it, something stirring in his chest when Napoleon had backed him up against the door of his hotel room. He remembers that strange sensation overcoming his senses then but never realised that little warning sign would eventually escalate to _this_ , to that very moment between them. And he wants to say what he really feels for Napoleon could be summarised by those three words lovers often say to one another, but, in the end, thinks it is simply not enough, because what he is feeling is so much more than that, the three words will not do his feelings justice. He feels, if he tells Napoleon he loves him, it will only be a blatant lie. Because love could not possibly be this strong, be this intense.

One final look at his partner, with those shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, and hair slightly tousled, is enough for Illya to surmise that he, himself, is not able to deny what he wants any longer. Illya’s long hard fight is ruined, destroyed, left in tatters.

“There is no turning back if we do this,” he ultimately says, his voice rough, like a final warning to Napoleon before he takes that plunge, and Napoleon nods. He is elated and nervous at the same time, understands he has breached Illya’s wall, has victory in his hands, but he still sits there, not moving a muscle. If Illya wants him, he is going to have to get up from his seat and move his butt towards him.

And Illya, determined now, having made up his mind, does exactly that. He pushes himself off his chair, strides towards Napoleon. Slowly. But surely. And Napoleon swallows thickly at the sight.

When he reaches his intended destination seconds later, Illya straddles Napoleon, earning a surprised gasp from his partner at his sudden boldness. Loving the sudden authority he has over Napoleon, he places his arms on either side of Napoleon’s head, then leans in closer making the American sink back against the cushions. With a slight twinkle in his eyes when he realises he has finally gotten Illya, Napoleon, not to be outdone, snakes his arms around the Russian's back to pull him even closer.

They are chest to chest now and only mere inches separates their lips. Illya could feel the heat radiating off Napoleon, burning him like a furnace.

“This is it, no turning back,” Illya murmurs and Napoleon smiles that smile of his that never fails to drive Illya a little bit crazy every time he sees it.

“I heard you the first time, Illya.”

“I want you to be sure.”

One of Napoleon’s hands grazes Illya's cheek. “Believe me when I say I’ve never been more sure about this. It’s bound to happen. You know it, I know it. There's no point in us waiting any longer. Gaby’s seen it since Rome, she says. Not Istanbul. Says we are blind idiots. Says we look at each other like some sad puppy all the time. And I think I agree with her, unfortunately. You drive me crazy, Illya, you have no fucking idea. Although…"

“Enough!” Illya growls.

He immediately slams his mouth down on Napoleon’s, shuts Napoleon up with a fierce kiss, fingers roaming his hair, on his jaw, on his neck, holding him close. He has no time to hear Napoleon’s incessant ramblings. Nope, no time at all. He figures he has waited long enough. Wasted enough time. And Napoleon, he moans and sighs, breathless sounds petering out, of his feelings he has tried to contain for months for his partner. And now, he could only take in everything that Illya gives him. With vigour. With hunger.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. So stupid to resist this...so, so stupid.”

Napoleon vaguely registers what Illya had murmured in his ear. His breath is coming in short gasps after Illya had broken off their kiss. He leans his head back with a sated smile playing on his lips, eyes heavy lidded. Illya’s fingers are running through his hair and he feels oddly complete, feels like nothing else, no one else matters anymore. He could die tomorrow and still be happy. But then he is a selfish man and he wants to hold on to Illya for as long as he possibly can.

“This might just be the best decision we’ve ever made together.”

Illya kisses him again, on his eyes, along his jaw, his neck, nibbles his earlobes, and finally on his lips, and then asks, “Even better than Rome?”

And without any hesitation, before pulling Illya down on him once again, Napoleon answers, “No contest at all.”

And that ride he’s on with Illya? Well, Napoleon’s ready to take him, _all of him_ , to the next level.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I'm imagining what would have happened if Napoleon knew Illya and Gaby had listened in when Victoria had been in his room. And I wished there was some scene between them(Napoleon/Illya/Gaby) after Illya almost drowned. Did they talk about it? Did Napoleon worry? Did Illya know their partners actually care about him? 
> 
> 2) After Waverly informed them about UNCLE, I wonder what went through the boy's minds. Surely they had expected that was the last they would see of each other?


End file.
